Darling
by sharmeow
Summary: Pansy Parkinson is a darling little coward. Pansy/Draco


**A/N: **written for the **Ravishing Romance **competition on HPFC, for the pairing Pansy/Draco, which was exceptionally hard and ended up in lots and lots of angst. It was quite fun to do, though, even though I certainly don't ship Pansy/Draco. I'd really appreciate reviews - they're even more fantastic than chocolate and orange cheesecake.

**Rating: **a high T, for swearing, slight sexual references, and substance abuse.

**Disclaimer**: obviously, I don't own anything, really. Just my laptop.

* * *

**i.**

**Fifteen Hours.**

"Alright, darling?"

The bloke who had slid onto the stool next to Pansy was _chunky_ – there was no conceivable manner of describing him other than that. The sort of guy who wavered between bulky and chubby, with a thick beater's build, and a bold tattoo stretched over his forearm. The distinct scent of beer and sweat lingered around him. He wasn't exactly leering – no, not _precisely_, but there was just the right amount of sleaziness pumped into his expression for her mouth to twist into a sneer and her nose to wrinkle up disgustedly.

"Yes," was her terse reply. "Get lost."

She didn't really expect him to comply, and, to be typical of men who sauntered up to girls sitting alone at bars, he didn't. Instead, he let loose a low whistle, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, his eyes crinkling. He leaned in towards her, and she took care to twist her body away from him. Pansy Parkinson was _not _about to humour a man who breathed booze and had sweat stains blossoming from under his armpits, thank you very much _indeed_. She dug her nails into the counter in front of her, creating tiny grooves with the talon-like, chipped things.

Her mother had informed her once, over a very dry martini, mid-day in June, that loneliness was to be avoided at all costs. Her mother spoke everything as though it was the absolute Gospel truth, and Pansy had hung onto these nuggets of information until she hit the tender age of thirteen, until began wearing a bra and issuing nasty comments to everyone she could and reading magazines that had words that bled malice. That was when she had realised that the vast majority of what her mother said was bull_shit_, but she couldn't help the memories of her mother's advice clinging onto her subconscious, like a cobweb hung in the corner of a room. Her mother's lipstick had dug into the cracks in her lips when she'd said it. It had been the very day after Pansy had come to the conclusion that her mother was having an affair, and it was the only time her mother had ever attempted to defend herself.

The fellow let loose another low whistle, cocking an eyebrow.

"What's got your knickers in a twist, then, love?"

Loneliness was to be avoided, that was true, but Pansy would rather have spent the night with the group of tarty Mudblood girls in the corner than seek, or even accept, company with such a man.

"None of your _damn _business," she said, barely even sparing him a glance, although her expression was sour. "I said get lost, didn't I?"

"Didn't think you meant it. Just came over for a chat," he raised his glass to his lips and knocked back half of his drink with such carelessness that Pansy almost allowed herself to be impressed. Frankly, she'd have been floored by drinking a mere half of what he had so quickly.

"Right. You thought I'd want to chat with _you_," was the response.

"All on your own at a bar. Haven't even touched your drink. Looks like something's gone wrong," the guy said, shrugging. Her mother would've retched to have seen her with a man like _him_. She'd have been positively repulsed by the sweat, the prickly hair, the dreadful, _common _accent. Most unfortunately for the bloke, however, this didn't warm Pansy to him whatsoever, the thought of her disgusted mother. She knew of girls - particularly Pureblood girls, much like her - who strove desperately to find everything their parents would disapprove of most in a man, but however much Pansy was at war with her mother, she had never quite been able to descend to that level of what she considered pathetic.

"Try those slags in the corner over there. They look _much _more your type," she suggested, with more than a hint of malice, tipping her pointed chin in the direction of the Mudbloods occupying the table at the corner. At a glance, one wouldn't think they were much different than Pansy and her _own _friends, but Pansy could tell at the merest glance. The lurid colours, the way they styled their hair, the way they _laughed_, even, raucously and carelessly, all dolled up and long-lashed and eager.

"'Course," the bloke agreed readily, eyes lingering on the most raucous and careless, a brunette dressed in deep violet who banged the table with her fist enthusiastically every time she spoke. "All in good time. I like being close to where the booze is kept…" he raised his glass, mockingly saluting the bartender, a skinny fellow with an absolutely horrendous hair-cut who did not seem in the least bit interested in anything but the very same brunette, whose eye he had been trying to catch since Pansy had slipped into the bar a quarter of an hour ago.

"_They've _got booze," Pansy snapped. "Booze galore. Get _lost._"

"What, have you broken up with your boyfriend, or something? Snapped a heel?" The guy demanded, a cruel edge creeping into his voice.

She tapped a sharp fingernail against her glass in impatience. It was true, she _hadn't _touched her drink at all; she'd ordered it for lack of anything else to do, and for a moment, she was able to pretend that she _wasn't _Pansy Parkinson, that she was a lone and yet very beautiful, mysterious, _alluring _figure, perfectly capable of sitting in a bar on her own, sipping an alcoholic beverage, not a care in the world resting on her shoulders. The taste of alcohol had never been much of a hit with her, however – it was the double-shot of Firewhiskey when she was fifteen that had done it, and the three subsequent shots, and the hours and hours she spent lying on the bathroom floor with puke in her hair afterwards. It had been chalked down to rather an excellent night, and afterwards they had shrieked with laughter at the thought of it, but it had sort of _stuck _with her through the rest of her teen years, and once the drink had been ordered she'd realised she hadn't really wanted it. It had been for the look, really, for the appearance she was attempting to achieve.

"Not much of a talker, then?" He said.

"What is it, with blokes?" She tilted her body towards him, although not in a particularly inviting way. "Are you all really stupid enough not to know when a girl _really _doesn't give a shit about talking to you, or do you just ignore it?"

"Was that a serious question, or a very obvious _hint_?" He said slowly.

"Stupid, then," she surmised from this, and, for lack of anything else to do, brought her glass to her lips and took a measured sip. Years of watching her mother draining glasses and glasses of booze had trained her in how _exactly _to look when she was drinking, a sort of bored expression she forced onto her face. Sophisticated, perhaps. She'd never been much interested in sophistication before, but it seemed a good way to go, when sat alone in a bar and warding off unwelcome advances.

"Yeah, I bet you got dumped," the bloke said, a grin suddenly spreading across his lips, much to her annoyance. Before she had time to snarl at him, however, he had snapped his fingers towards the waiter – who looked deeply aggravated by this unceremonious manner of fetching him – and called, "Oi, _garcon_! Firewhiskey. On the double. And the same for _this one _again."

"Don't," Pansy told the waiter, firmly. "Wouldn't accept a drink from the likes of _you_," she said, smugly, flicking the bloke a nasty look and turning her head, her dark hair swishing, as though echoing the statement.

"Better make it two for me, then," the man said.

"Anything else you'd like?" The waiter demanded, voice slightly strained. He'd been watching the slags in the corner and another rowdy group of young men with a slightly mournful look the entire night, as though cursing the fact that he was practically shackled behind the bar. If anyone looked in dire need of a drink, it was _him_. He served up the ordered drinks sulkily, albeit quickly, and addressed Pansy with a, "Are you actually going to _drink that_?"

"Oh, jog on," was her rude response, eyes narrowing. "Ever heard of someone taking their time?"

"You two ought to go out," the chunky guy put in cheerfully, and he was subsequently met with two deathly glares. The waiter wafted away in order to gaze wistfully at the youths dotted around the bar enjoying themselves, and Pansy took another generous sip of her drink, wincing slightly at the sharpness, the burn shooting through her chest. It was a struggle not to shudder in reaction to the bitter taste, but she was utterly determined not to falter in front of this persistent, deeply aggravating man.

"You in love, then?" The guy suggested, producing a stick of chewing gum from his pocket and popping it into his mouth. A _stupid _thing to do, when he was just about to have a drink, but, on closer inspection, his fingers were stained with nicotine, and she supposed he'd decided to take the tiresome chewing-gum route of chucking the habit. Both her father and her mother smoked, but they used potions in order for their skin not to stain, charmed their teeth shockingly white, protected their lungs against all harm with complex enchantments.

"Could you just _leave_?" She said, voice somewhat shrill, as the question had startled her.

"It _is _love, then," he said, chewing rhythmically and not in the least attractively, leaning back and surveying her proudly. "Should've guessed sooner. Who's the lucky bloke, then? Some fancy fellow you met the other night? Stole your heart away?"

She crossed her ankles, smoothed down her skirt, eyed him resentfully. He made the entire thing sound so invitingly _normal_, the fancy of waltzing along and meeting some handsome devil under the stars, someone who stole her heart without a second thought. And he made it sound so _trivial_, too, as though it was _easy _for that to happen. She tapped her fingernail against her glass again and, instead of replying to him – because there was nothing much _to _reply to that statement – she took it firmly in one hand and found herself taking a sizable and immediately regrettable gulp of the liquid.

"She doesn't _have _a heart," someone piped up from behind them.

Pansy swivelled around, and found herself face-to-face with one of the Mudbloods who had been sitting in the corner. Of course, one couldn't be sure that they were _all _Mudbloods, but they appeared to be so, and once you associated with one, you were practically one yourself. The girl was clutching her Firewhiskey so tightly her knuckles rather looked as though they were about to burst out from under her skin, and her lips were stretched into a thin line. In her other hand, she had a copy of the _Daily Prophet, _a screwed up and mangled edition - but an edition no less. That very day's edition, to be precise. It didn't take a genius to work out why Pansy had been approached, and she drew herself upwards, very obviously bracing herself.

"You're Pansy Parkinson," the girl announced, eyes narrowed. _Bitch_. Instinctively, Pansy slid off of the stool, jerking her chin upwards.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah I am."

"Well," the girl said, voice trembling, "Well –" and she unraveled the _Daily Prophet_, thrusting it towards Pansy. She'd seen the cover already, for her mother had shown it to her that morning, despairingly, demanding _why_, exactly, she was holding hands with a boy whose family had been ruined, a boy who was on trial the very next day, a boy who was undeniably loathed by the vast majority of the Wizarding World, a boy whose social standing had dipped so impossibly low it would be _suicide _to be involved with him. The pettiest reason for her mother to appear at her door at ten in the morning, but her mother had simply paced her apartment engulfed by a cloud of smoke, issuing constant orders and ignoring anything Pansy attempted to chip in with. " – I think you, and your filthy – I think you're _scum_, you and him – and I just hope that he gets packed off to Azkaban where he belongs. If I had it my way, you'd be there, too."

_Bitch_.

Pansy's mouth dropped open to reply, and she found herself trembling slightly, but before she could even get _started _on the ugliness of the girl before her (Pansy _always _attacked physical features, as she felt that, despite what people spewed about 'inner beauty', those packed more of a punch), before she could even _begin _to verbally shred her, the Mudblood had flung her glass of alcohol - an acid-yellow drink - all over Pansy's blouse and stormed off towards the bathrooms. The overpowering smell of her perfume was all she left, a streak of blonde hair and a green dress as she darted across the bar, trembling with rage.

"_You_ – "

But Pansy was flung back by the force of a Shield Charm cast by someone else, and she found herself suddenly, terrifyingly, being stared at from all angles, recognition flickering in the eyes of the rowdy young men across from her, the slags from the corner rushing after their friend and throwing Pansy disgusted, reproachful looks over their shoulders. One of the young men, a handsome sort, fixed her with a look of scorn and called, "You won't be so pleased to show your face in public when your boyfriend's chucked into Azkaban, will you, darling!"

_Darling_.

"_You're _that little bastard's girlfriend?" The bloke that had sat next to her said in wonder as Pansy, visibly shaking, turned to gather her things, chucking a few sickles onto the bar in exchange for her drink, shrugging her bag over her shoulder. "You're _joking _– "

"Yes, yes I _am_!" Voice shooting upwards, she clocked that _he _had been the one who had cast the shield charm – his wand was out, although it hung limp from his hand as he goggled at her. "And if I had it _my _way, half of this lot wouldn't be _allowed _in this bar! And you should lose the tattoo," she added, cruelly. "It's _far _too young for you."

Her voice rang out into the hushed bar. Clearly, the customers were far more interested in her than their own chatter, and they almost seemed to buzz angrily, as though their fury had taken on a life of its own. They seemed to solidify in their united disgust, a blur of narrowed eyes and mouths twisted into grim, dissatisfied shapes. Even the stupid, vacant bar-man was staring at her, doing absolutely nothing to pacify anyone or calm the chaos or nip whatever was stewing in the bud. His lips had even parted slightly, as though he'd never come across a shamed woman before.

"Got an eyeful, then? Got a good, _nice _look at me? Think I look different from the picture in the _Prophet_, do you?" Trembling, she snatched up the shawl she'd draped over her seat – it had been a ridiculous idea, wearing a shawl, for Merlin's sake, she wasn't _seventy _– and flung it over her shoulders. "You all make me _sick_. We're the only thing you can complain about – and you read about us everyday – I bet we're the highlights of your shitty little _lives _–" black hair flying, she gripped her bag tightly to her side, a tidal wave of fear rising through her chest as she realised that her wand was stored somewhere amidst the debris inside of it. Her blouse was still stained with the lurid-coloured drink that had been flung at her, seeping into her skin, and although she knew that it was foolish - impossible, even - it almost felt as though the liquid was _burning_ her.

The buzz of her audience heightened at this, and one bloke stood up, very suddenly, as though seriously considering having a good and proper go at her, but she _certainly _wasn't hanging around to get hexed into the next week. _That'd _be a story the masses would gobble up eagerly. There was nothing people adored more than scandal, gossip, strife, misery. She knew from experience. Stories of happiness and triumph were all very grand indeed, but, Pansy Parkinson knew, people were malicious, and cruel, and craved drama. She stormed towards the door, only glancing backwards once, towards the chunky fellow who had settled himself into the stool beside her not five minutes ago.

Most perplexing, he was smiling – a sort of bemused, thoughtful _smirk_.

Typically, it was raining outside, and, standing underneath the miserable drizzle, she realised that she had _nowhere to go_. Eighteen years old, healthy, wearing a stained blouse and a short skirt and not a single place to go. There was nowhere in the Wizarding World she could slide into, nowhere she could settle into the background, nowhere she could recreate a persona and flow with it. She'd be found a fraud within the first five minutes. She didn't stand a chance. Lying about her name was pointless, and attempting to disguise herself fruitless. Most unfortunately, she was easily recognizable, and her appearance seemed to have been seared into the brain of every wizard and witch in the entire country. The _Prophet _had been delivered that morning and she saw herself, for the very first time, how others saw her, and it frightened her, blinking down at herself over a cup of strong coffee. Dark-eyed, dark-haired, stubborn, disagreeable, her face twisted unpleasantly, clinging like a limpet to the blond beside her.

There was nowhere to go, she told herself. Nowhere to go. The thought, oddly, seemed to pacify her, if only for a moment.

"At least I know what was pissing you off so much now, eh?"

He had followed her outside, was resting himself against the door-frame and eyeing her thoughtfully, that same ridiculous smirk slapped over his lips, lazily rolling a cigarette. The rain seemed to create a sort of barrier between them; he was still stood, mostly, in the shelter of the pub, and the hustle and bustle hummed from behind him, along with the light of the establishment bleeding onto the street. It felt as though she was watching him on a screen, as though they existed in entirely separate worlds.

"What's it like, shagging a dead man walking, then? Hm?"

Fifteen hours; that was how long it was until the trial. Fifteen hours, almost to the minute, for it was still only ten o'clock, rather early in the night, although the winter had a talent of creating the impression that it was far better. A gust of wind caused Pansy to fist the side of her skirt, keeping it clamped down beside her thigh. She'd positively _begged _Draco to allow her to spend the day with him, but he'd been insistent, almost cruel. Fifteen hours could be almost anything – time had the infuriating habit of stretching, dragging itself into the unknowns and slogging by in a most uneventful manner, but, when it was least expected, time would blaze past, leaving no room for apologies, for second thoughts, for excuses or strategies.

"It's superb," she heard herself saying, voice dripping with sarcasm. Turning sharply, she began to trot away, heels clicking against the cobbled pavement. The rain had intensified, droplets sliding from her forehead down to the very tip of her nose.

As she turned a corner, she heard the far-away call of a, "See you later, darling!"

**ii.**

**Thirteen Hours.**

Pansy's mother had not taught her much, had never been a hands-on sort of mother. The thought of mothering seemed to vaguely disgust her, much more preferring and taking solace in cocktails and cigarettes, magazines and nasty, vindictive words. Teaching Pansy had never been much of a priority - although her mother would often air her views, and very loudly, too, they were never specifically for Pansy, but rather for anyone who had the slightest indication to pay any notice. Pansy, however, rarely paid any notice to her mother, nor did she much feel the need to. The feeling appeared to be vastly mutual. Her mother, however, had taught her two very sound lessons, not from any words she had spoken – not from any golden nuggets of information – but from her actions. Her mother had taught her, without even realising it, how to slice and scorch people verbally, and how to devotedly love a man who never seemed to properly return the feeling. Neither lesson helped her much in the slightest; in fact, both lessons were rather toxic, when reviewed. But her mother, in general, was toxic.

Draco Malfoy's eyes had shadows underneath them, but they looked far more like bruises, and his skin was distressingly sallow. He'd always been _slight_, there was no doubt about that, but as of recent he'd gotten _too _slight, his cheek-bones oddly prominent, making it rather look as though his skin was stretched tightly over his bones. Or, Pansy had thought once, as though his skeleton was attempting to claw its way out from under his flesh. She had dismissed the thought from her mind very swiftly, however, because it was _too _disgusting.

He had also very obviously been drinking. If the somewhat unfocussed eyes weren't the dead give-away, the empty bottle of Firewhiskey clutched in one hand certainly was.

"I didn't know where else to go," he announced, when Pansy tottered into the apartment her mother had bought (grudgingly) for her and found him slumped over the kitchen table. "I didn't – it was the only place – I couldn't bring _him _ home – "

Gregory Goyle was slumped on the chair opposite to Draco, although the thug-like boy seemed to be unconscious, his large head turned towards Pansy, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open and a trickle of drool seeping onto the table underneath him. Pansy wasn't surprised in the slightest. Goyle had come to the conclusion that happiness and peace lay in the bottom of a bottle and had spent the past year attempting to dredge up proof to support the fact.

"It was the _only _– "

"You oughtn't to be drinking, Draco," she cut him off, shedding her shawl. She pushed back her fringe, completely damp and stuck to her forehead. "You must be _mad_, you've got to have your wits about you tomorrow – "

"I wasn't feeling good, _alright_?" He brought the Firewhiskey bottle to his mouth, realising too late that there was absolutely nothing left of it and scowling. "Got anymore booze?"

"You _can't_," she said, suddenly sharp, something she'd never had to be with Draco before, never even _wanted _to be before. She dumped her bag on the floor, cast a pair of disgusted eyes over Goyle's thug-like body, and, when certain he was thoroughly sound asleep, dragged her blouse off over her head, exposed skin immediately popping up with goose-bumps in the miniscule spaghetti-top that she had dragged on that morning. "Some _bitch _threw a drink at me tonight, you know."

"Right. Saw the pictures in the _Prophet_, did she?"

"You know she did."

"You didn't _have _to be in the pictures. You don't _have _to hang around me –"

She crossed the room, deftly pulling the Firewhiskey bottle from his grip, and found it left him easily enough – he wasn't putting up a fight whatsoever, despite his words and gait. He'd never been fantastic at handling his drink, much like her; the two of them would often be the first to get well and truly bladdered, Pansy often leaning over the toilet in the wee hours of the morning and Draco slouched and irritable, eyes half-closed, words slurring and sliding alarmingly.

"It wasn't all me," he defended himself, throwing one accusing hand towards his hefty companion. "_That _stupid bastard had more than half of it – "

"Are you staying?"

He eyed her almost warily, before saying, "Yes."

She settled onto his lap, curling his body into his, pleasure swelling in her stomach as he responded in kind, leaning his head on her shoulder as she locked her hands behind his neck.

"You should've seen the slag who chucked the drink at me," she whispered into his hair, tucking her legs up onto his knee, a slight, feral smile creeping onto her face. He would've loved it. "Ugly. _Really_ ugly. Wore bright green. Parading around like she _owned _the place."

"Mudblood?"

"Probably. As good as."

Goyle gave a soft snore, somewhat surprising coming from a bloke of his build, and both of them tensed, wondering if he was to wake up and start swearing loudly – a torrent of curse-words streaming from his mouth was generally the best one could get from Gregory Goyle, those days. Pansy could only thank whatever divine bloody force she didn't believe in that Draco hadn't descended to the very same level – oh, he was _nearly _there, tipping precariously over the edge, but he hadn't quite reached it yet. And she was determined he wouldn't, if she could do anything about it at all.

She wouldn't have dared to have asked if the apartment hadn't been so dark – only lit by the candles she had strewn around the place – or if she had been looking him in the eye, but, curled up on his lap, she felt strangely daring, and murmured, "Are you scared?"

"_Merlin's sake_, Pansy –"

" – I was just _asking _– "

"They're going to send me to the dementors! I'm terrified! I'm _sodding _terrified! I'm going to end up with my father, rotting away in a cell and going mad – " she was very unceremoniously dumped from his lap, the spell of the moment effectively broken.

"Don't get upset," she hunched slightly, bringing herself to eye-level, twisting her arms around his and gripping his hands very fiercely indeed. "_Don't_. We won't talk about it anymore, if you don't want. We won't."

"_Good_," he said, fiercely, but didn't remove his hands from hers, although he turned his head away. He looked petrifying in the light of the candles, as though he was already wasting away – as though his body seemed to _know _that he was about to be thrown into Azkaban and had prematurely began to hunger. And then, his voice low and ashamed: "I can't _sleep_."

"Well, obviously," she said. "_Obviously_ you can't sleep. Oh, Draco – " but she stopped herself, instead tightening her grip on his fingers even more so. If she didn't loosen her hold, his circulation would surely be cut off, but she couldn't quite help herself. She felt safer when she clung to someone else. As though _they _were the life-buoy, as though they were the established support.

He was a shadow of a man, the sort of boy her mother had warned her about once or twice, the sort of boy one avoided if met with on a dark night. He didn't even seem like a real _person _anymore, more so a weak imprint of something she'd once yearned for. Ruined – ruined socially, ruined emotionally. Morally ambiguous. Handsome, once, but not anymore. And yet she'd be damned if she turned her back on him, although it struck her, more than anything else, how like her mother she was: to love the wrong man, and preach about loving the right one. How fitting. She ought to start sipping martinis and chain smoking. It would only add to the effect of the entire thing.

"Come to bed. Leave _him_," she wrinkled her nose towards Goyle. "Can you _not _bring him here anymore?"

"Where d'you suggest I leave him? The streets?"

"He has a home," she said. She knew it wasn't true; he didn't, not really, and, frankly, he was one of the most hated under twenty-one year olds in Wizarding Britain. She knew that for a fact because she was, too, and, as the saying went, it took one to know one. They had to sort of band together, that entire motley crew of Death Eaters' children, Voldemort Supporters, Pureblood Supremacists. Band together and keep their heads low and try and retain any dignity they could.

This went ignored, and Pansy's wand was flicked, and the candles were extinguished. Fingers entwined, the two crept past the snoozing, hulking figure, slipping into the corridor and padding a couple of paces before turning into her bedroom, small and yet beautifully furnished, elegant, comfortable – a stack of _Witch Weekly_ beside her bed, beauty products strewn over her desk, a large mirror propped up by the wall and many more candles dotted across the room. Her penchant for candles had been criticized by more than one, but she enjoyed the romanticism of the entire thing. As someone who had very little time for romance, she felt that it was owed to her, at least, to be able to decorate her apartment with candles peacefully.

"_Why _were you walking in the rain?" Draco demanded as he kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, clocking the dampness of her hair and the way her skimpy little top clung to her skin. "Ever heard of apparition, Parkinson?"

"I only got caught out there for a minute," she lied, glowering at him. She swapped her skirt for pyjamas bottoms, loose and comfortable, and within the grand total of thirty seconds the two were collapsed on the tiny bed, lying over the duvet and staring up at the ceiling, Pansy's head resting in the crook of Draco's shoulder. It was a trend of theirs, to argue and to act as though his appearing in her apartment was not a common occurrence, only to end up side-by-side on her bed, cramped and yet finding safety and comfort in the warmth, their limbs growing more tangled together as each hour passed.

"I didn't think I was going out tonight," he murmured. "But Goyle came over, and – stupid git – he already had drink in him, I had to get him out…then we got started on the Firewhiskey…Theo and Blaise appeared as well. For a bit…"

"Me neither," she said. "I just sort of went out. Felt like it, you know? Thought I could sit at a bar and get some peace and bloody quiet. Mum came over today, practically drove me off the deep end, so I thought, you know, a few drinks might calm me down…"

"Your mum still the same, then?"

Another trend of theirs, to lie on top of the bedclothes and do nothing but mutter half-finished sentences until their breathing slowed and they fell asleep. For Pansy, it was the company, and the boy she loved, and the fact that the sheer lack of space meant that they were absolutely always touching, and for Draco – well, he had said that he found it difficult to sleep, and although he had never admitted it, she knew perfectly well he had series of horrifying nightmares every night. It had been one too many times that she had ended up shoved out of the bed by his tossing and turning, or awakened by his yells and whimpers.

"Yeah, she's still the very same. The hag."

"And your father? He around?"

She hadn't seen her father in over four months. He had seemed distant, and yet loving, although he hadn't paid much attention to her mother, who had feigned her own disinterest and then cried bitterly when he had left. In Pansy's opinion, a woman who cheated on her husband didn't have much of a right to sob in such a distraught manner when he did not seem totally devoted to her, and she had as much as told her mother. She'd always felt somewhat uncomfortable about those cruel words afterwords, but she would fiercely remind herself who, exactly, had _taught _her to yield words in such a manner.

"He visits, from time to time – too much of a wanderer to stick around," she responded, and then, with something akin to a laugh fighting its way to her body, said, "We've got some screwed up parents, haven't we?"

"You do, " was the reply. Terse. Inflexible. His entire body seemed to seize up, as it always did whenever Lucius Malfoy was referred to. He began to fumble in his pocket, finally producing a packet of fags and brandishing it towards her, saying, "Want one, then?"

"Getting dangerously close to becoming my mother, but go on," she said, against her better judgement, and was handed a cigarette, which she turned over in her fingers a total of three times before lighting it with the tip of her wand. She coughed uncontrollably after the first inhale, much to Draco's disgust. "I hate the smell. It sticks, you know," she said miserably, once she had recovered, but he did not stop smoking, tapping the ash over the side of the bed.

"Draco?"

"What?"

"You should sleep…" she rested one hand on his forehead, stroking his hair, as he only let her do nowadays when they were totally alone and in the half-light. "They'll think you're a complete bastard if you turn up hungover tomorrow. Oh, _Merlin_," in a sudden frenzy of panic, she kicked at the end of the bed. "What the hell are you going to _say_?"

"It'll be fine," he said, bitterly. "Mother's hired a lawyer. I should get out in one piece. Not," he added, "That that'll please anyone."

"You're lying," Pansy said stoutly, eyes narrowing. "I _know _you are. You said yourself in the kitchen, you said _you _thought you were getting locked up –"

"Well then you'll get rid of me!" He cried, sitting bolt upright.

"Shut _up_!" She followed suit, her hair utterly chaotic, her eyes growing wide. "That's not what I _want_! Why d'you think I'm always letting you stay over? _Draco_," she lowered her voice, upon hearing a grunt from Goyle in the kitchen – the very last thing she needed was for that useless lump to burst in on them – balling her fingers into fists. "Don't you dare think I don't want you here, don't you _dare _– "

"Maybe _you _shouldn't tell me what to do," he hissed, holding the smouldering cigarette aloft, eyes full of poison.

For a minute, she remained upright, frozen, and then, just as suddenly, she flopped back onto the bed, twisting away from him. She turned her body entirely away from his, curling herself into a ball. Her lips were drawn into a thin line, her shoulders hunched and back arched. After a minute, she felt his weight shift, and she knew he was sliding down onto the bed again after finishing his fag.

"Was that the shawl your father bought you?"

She considered being ruthless, and denying him conversation, but she found that she could not, and said: "He bought it for me in fourth year. I'm surprised you remember."

"I hated it. Made you look like an old woman."

Yes; yes it had.

"_Promise _you'll try and get off tomorrow," she said fiercely into the duvet, still turned away from him and yet feeling as though she was gripping him by the shoulders and staring straight into his haunted, pale eyes. "Promise it. Don't let them _cow _you. Don't let them."

"Potter's going to be there, you know," was the only response to that, a sort of would-be casual reply, causing Pansy to stifle a cry of exasperation and turn around immediately, finding herself facing the blond.

"_Why_?" She hissed. "It's not any of his business. What's precious _Potter _got to do with any of it?"

The look he presented her with had an edge of pity that shook her so she refused to receive it, instead ducking her head and pressing her face against his chest, breathing in his scent as though she wouldn't ever again – he smelled like shoe-polish, Firewhiskey and cigarettes, not the nicest mixture, and yet not the most dire she'd ever come across. It certainly trumped booze and sweat. She would gladly take it over _that_.

"Don't plead guilty," she told him, for the very first time. She'd thought it so often those past few weeks, and yet she had never once articulated her request, not knowing quite how he'd react and rather fearing his response. But time was running out; thirteen hours and counting, thirteen hours and everything changed. Thirteen hours and he could be thrown away without a key, left to rot, left to merely wither away, without the tiniest slice of mercy spared. The dementors were no longer at Azkaban, but the term remained 'thrown to the dementors' and Pansy had no doubt about it that the prison still had the ability to steal someone's soul, no matter how gradually it did so.

"I'm tired," he said, stiffly. She exhaled heavily, breath rattling slightly.

It wasn't quite the reaction she had wanted, but not the one she'd dreaded, either. In fact, it had barely counted as a response, and, pressed against his chest, she wondered whether he was taking what she had said into account.

"Love you," she whispered, the second thing she had been apprehensive about saying. A silence followed, but a comfortable sort, almost warm. There was still dread hanging in the air, of course – impossible to banish, uncontrollable, just this ominous atmosphere weighing upon them, doom lingering on the horizon. But she found herself relaxing, perhaps due to the rise and fall of his chest, and the thought of the fact that he had remembered the shawl her father had given her that she had hated so intensely, the shawl that she had been wearing for only a split second as she entered the apartment before she had thrown it off.

She might have imagined that he whispered the sentiment back as she drifted into sleep, but she could not be sure.

**iii.**

**Eight Hours. **

"What am I going to _do_?" Draco cried, once they had reached the pavement. "What am I – I'm going to – I'm going the same way as my _father_!"

"Be _quiet_, will you?" Pansy hissed, scurrying after him as he hurtled away from her apartment building, suddenly wide awake after hours of sleeping. When she had awoken to find a figure at the end of her bed, her heart had nearly stopped, and she'd all but shrieked until she had realised it was Draco, pale as a ghost and rigid, standing above her with eyes peeled open. He had said nothing other than, "I can't sleep. _I can't sleep_. I need to get out of here." She hadn't questioned it - even the stupidest, even the most oblivious of a person couldn't have needed to question such a request, and she had found herself following him down the three flights of stairs, hurtling at top-speed, coming dangerously close to stumbling numerous times.

"It's – Draco, it's really, _really _late!" Pansy squawked, hugging her arms around her body, quaking in the vindictive cold of the night air. The street was entirely deserted, fallen leaves crushed under the soles of their shoes, the sky dark and brooding, dark shapes that seemed to ebb and throb lurking behind the shadows. "You need to _sleep _– "

"What's the use?" He thundered. "What is the bloody _use_? They're going to – they're going to _lock me away _– " he blanched, as though the reality and weight of the situation had only just struck him.

"They might not," she reminded him fiercely. "They _might not_. Who says you're getting locked away? _Who says_? You've a trial, you've a lawyer! You're – _Draco_ –"

For he had turned abruptly and started down the pavement again, walking at a pace surprising for a boy wasting away so swiftly. Slippers were certainly not designed for running, and Pansy realised this as she half-skidded after him, hair unraveling from the bun she had stuck it in, the night air attacking any sliver of exposed skin like knives.

"Let me come with you tomorrow!" She cried, once she had caught up with him. She was breathing heavily, but her chin was set determinedly, her bottom lip jutting out. "I know – I _know _you said you didn't want me to – "

"What good will it do? You turning up with me?" He laughed aloud, a bitter, cruel laugh that caused the hairs at the back of her neck to stand up on end. "What, so you can see me getting dragged off to Azkaban? Oh, fan_tastic _– "

She took his being distracted as a chance, and threw herself at him, once again locking her hands at the nape of his neck and feeling their lips collide. She didn't know why, exactly, she was kissing him, but he had reminded her so strongly of someone else for a moment, someone who _wasn't _a shadow or an imprint, and it had shaken her, and bravery had shot through her body. She wasn't used to bravery - it was a foreign emotion, and yet when it gripped her, it gripped her so suddenly she most certainly had to act on it.

"I love you," she said fiercely, once she had released his chapped, thin lips from hers. "I _love you_, and I'm coming _with _you. You can't stop me. _You can't_." She clutched at the collar of his shirt, stretching upwards in order to be able to look into his eyes, which held such utter surprise it was almost unbearable.

Once he seemed to gather himself, he managed to hiss, although it was half-hearted and little more than a whisper, "What difference does it make? You loving me?"

"I don't think it makes any," she said. "But I'm stood out here in the freezing cold with you, _for you _– I stay up every night waiting for you – I'm on the front page of the _Prophet _with you – and everybody hates me _because of you _– it does make a difference, it should make a difference to _you _– "

"It doesn't."

"It _should_."

She took a very smart step away from him, and the two glared at each other, boy against girl, Slytherin against Slytherin, on the corner of a street in the early hours of the morning of the most important and dreaded day of his life, him in his shirt and creased trousers, his shoes pulled onto the wrong feet, and her shivering uncontrollably in a jacket and pyjamas bottoms and a pair of green silk slippers. Not another soul in the world seemed to exist at that very moment, and if another soul _had _seemed to exist, it wouldn't have been deemed at all important. Half-dressed teenagers were rarely the most important souls in the world, but when they were, it was usually in the early hours of the morning.

"Come, then," Draco relented, finally. "Come. Tomorrow."

"Well, if you _deign _to let me – "

"No," he interrupted, heaving a great sigh and suddenly sliding down onto his hunkers, head bowed down towards the ground. "I want you there."

He would be not coaxed inside for some time, but eventually, he straightened upwards, and she found herself wrapped in his arms. She wasn't entirely sure who had initiated their embrace, their tangle together, but there was something very mutual about the entire thing, and their shivering subsided, if only for a couple of seconds, his chin resting on her head, and the sky opened up again and the rain began to fall, soaking into their clothes and cooling the flush of Pansy's cheeks. She felt defined, in that very moment, and as unlike her mother as she could possibly be, and when they broke away from their embrace, she held herself with a certain grace that she had never had before.

Draco propped a cigarette on his bottom lip, produced his wand, and lit up. He smoked in silence, and didn't offer Pansy a fag that time, although she wouldn't have felt at all inclined to take it. The two leaned against the wall of Pansy's apartment building, the rain pattering against the pavement. Draco finished his cigarette somewhat grudgingly, chucked the butt into a nearby puddle and followed his companion back upstairs.

**iv.**

**Two Hours.**

He would not go home before the trial, although Pansy begged him to, and instead he wore a pair of robes he had left at Pansy's before, thankfully rather a smart pair. It was only fitting, after all, that he look handsome as his fate was being decided. There was something mildly sick about it, a bit disgusting, but it worked, in a way. Looking your best as you were led to the gallows.

"Wha's going on?" Goyle had groaned that morning, as Pansy paced the kitchen, waiting for Draco to emerge from her room, fully dressed and presentable. He had spent the entire night slumped at the table, drooling and snoring and grunting, as Goyle was wont to do.

Stomping towards him, Pansy jabbed his chest, face rearranging itself into a snarl, and said, "Don't you _dare _make another sound. Don't you dare make a fuss. Just sit here and _shut up _until we go and then I want you to leave. Don't touch anything, don't _break _anything – and, for the love of _Merlin_, don't eat anything."

Two hours and counting. Two hours. It was inevitable, now. The previous night, and in the early hours of the morning, time had seemed suspended, almost. The trial had seemed so far away, but _with two hours _– with two hours it was practically upon them, slowly creeping towards them, as though they were the prey and time was the predator. Both the prey and predator were aware of what was about to unfurl, and yet nothing was put in action to halt what was to unfold. Time simply rolled on, and nothing could be done about it.

A letter came for Pansy mere minutes later, a letter she knew, with a certainty that surprised her, was from her mother. Her owl, Snippet, swooped into the room, plopped the letter on the table and rested on her perch in the corner, staring suspiciously at Goyle. The letter was what she had expected, and she tossed it in the rubbish as Draco entered the room.

How had the hefty bloke from the previous night described him?

_Dead man walking._

Yes, that was certainly accurate. Very fitting indeed. He looked ill, and had the trial not been inevitable, she would have forced him back to bed. She would've refused to let him leave the apartment. He was too thin, too sad, too much of a shadow of a person once again. She wondered if she had merely imagined his becoming more defined that morning, as he had fought so hard against crying, as he had raged and smoked and listened to her proclaiming her love for him on the pavement.

"We had best leave in a bit," she told him. "You'll be up soon. In front of the entire sodding Wizengamot. And that Potter bastard."

"He's a witness. Or something like that."

"You look handsome," she informed him. "Good to make an impression, I suppose."

"Don't _touch_ anything while we're gone, Goyle," Draco said sharply, seemingly to avoid having to answer her compliment. "I'll see you later, maybe. You should go home. You should _shower_," he cast a repulsed gaze over his friend, who smelled strongly of a brewery and evidently had not shaved in quite a number of days.

As they left the apartment, Draco's breath caught slightly, and they stood in the alcove just in front of the door, shrugging into their jackets. He was haunted. There was no other way to describe it. Haunted, and screwed up, and exhausted, and completely worn out. If he was to be painted, the colours used would've been shades of grey and whites, washed-out, barely-there colours.

"This is going to be the worst fucking day of your life," Pansy announced. "Just so you know. Draco - " she caught his arm, for he had blanched and turned away from her. She forced him around, locking her eyes on his, not allowing herself to cast her own gaze downwards. She had no idea when, exactly, their relationship had shifted, when she had become the stronger one, the one who initiated things, but the war had done funny things, and the dramatic change of everything that had once been had affected her in the oddest of manners. "Don't plead guilty. Don't you _dare_."

Her mother's letter had been short, barely reaching over three sentences. They were hastily scribbled, in her mother's loopy, pretentious scrawl, insisting that she not be an idiot, reminding her that she had the Parkinson Family Honour to uphold, and that the Malfoys were ruined and absolutely nothing good could be squeezed out of them anymore. They were finished. Kaput. Draco Malfoy, her mother had written, was as good as dead.

**v.**

**Forty Minutes.**

"Mister Malfoy! _Mister Malfoy_!"

"Oi! I'm from the _Prophet_! Oi, lad, come over here, tell us what it's like to be the most hated young man in Britain -"

" - is this your girlfriend, Mister Malfoy?"

"Are you pleading guilty, sir?"

" - your wife, perhaps? What's your name, love?"

"I'm from the _Prophet_!"

They were surrounded by journalists and photographers - a short, paunchy man was at the front, desperately scrabbling at Pansy and Draco, and an orange-haired witch holding a camera aloft was snapping pictures enthusiastically. Insults and passive-aggressive comments flew over their heads as they attempted to dart past the press, and the buzz of the audience at the bar the previous night returned to Pansy, except intensified. The journalists were unforgiving, merciless. They wanted a good story, and all the while Draco was paling even further, his breathing becoming shorter and shorter, and Pansy found herself snapping back at the journalists, nasty comments sure to make the front page and create a satisfying stir, her fingers clenched around Draco's wrist. It wasn't long now.

She pressed a kiss to his temple, and wondered why on earth this had happened to her, and how on earth she had found herself tied to this boy beside her, this boy who was damned, it appeared, to a life in Azkaban.

**vi.**

**Five Minutes.**

They were a party of three; Pansy, Draco, and Narcissa, who had arrived only moments before, fury crossing over her striking face at the sight of her son, but instead of admonishing him for not returning home the previous night, she had taken him up in her arms and hugged him with such a ferocity that Pansy had felt almost embarrassed, but she had watched, somewhat fascinated by the exchange. The two Malfoys had dipped their heads and began conversing in low, secretive tones, Narcissa's words clipped and angry, Draco's with a definite panicked edge. Narcissa had barely glanced at Pansy. Irritating, but she would deal with it. She would. She'd _have _to, after all.

It was five to one. The Wizengamot were already assembled in the chamber, and, if the rumours were to be believed - and Pansy was inclined to believe them - they were feeling ruthless, filled to the brim with rage, and not in the least unapologetic. The Wizarding World was shrieking for Draco Malfoy to be sent to Azkaban, and the Wizengamot seemed perfectly capable of complying. Another woman appeared a moment later, a mousy-looking, scrawny sort of thing that turned out to be the lawyer, who seemed too shy even to so much as nod at Pansy.

He didn't have a chance, and they were all thinking it. He didn't have a shadow of a chance. Not a flicker of a chance. It didn't matter that he spent every night immersed in nightmares, it didn't matter that he quaked at the sight of blood, it didn't matter that he was racked with grief and guilt, because he had the ink of a Death Eater crawling up his forearm. That was all that mattered. That was absolutely all that mattered.

"I'm fucked," he told her, as they stood to the side, his eyes darting towards the clock set up over the doors. There were obnoxious, really, clocks; forever reminding people of previous engagements, forever cutting sacred time between lovers short, forever bringing times of peace and relaxation to an unceremonious close.

"Don't plead guilty," she said, once again, fiercely. "Just don't."

He nodded, curtly, and she knew he was lying. She knew that he was going to. He was going to plead guilty - perhaps just because he felt it'd get him a lighter sentence, and she realised, with a sudden jolt, that he could be right. Although either way, he was going to be judged with such harshness he would be lucky to escape anything at all. He had all the evidence they needed tattooed on his skin - Pansy had seen it, more than once, although she'd always tried her very damnedest not to touch the gruesome thing, for it scared her, still, that little bit left of You-Know-Who.

"I never liked you that much, in Hogwarts," he told her. "But now - "

" - you'll be back," Pansy said, her voice suddenly shrill, as for some reason his words had created something of a lump in her throat, as both his mother and lawyer were staring anxiously towards him. His mother had one had pressed over her heart, as though she was feeling it break beneath her flesh. "You'll be - "

"It's time," Narcissa Malfoy's sharp voice sliced through whatever Pansy was about to say, and, abruptly, Pansy felt herself swiveling away from Draco Malfoy, from the boy who had always been her equal, her ally, from the boy she had known for so long and yet only loved for the shortest amount of time possible, from the boy who she had done everything first with, from the boy who had occupied her bed almost every night since the war had ended. She had heard his shrieks in the night, been knocked out of her own bed due to his thrashing. She was not going to watch him walk towards his jail sentence. She was far too much of a coward for that. A darling little coward.

He caught her hand, and for a minute it was squeezed, and he murmured, words tripping over one another in their eagerness to escape from his lips, "I'm the same. I feel the same. I'll be back. I - I have to go - " he cut himself off, and she did not turn, because she could hear the doors of the Wizengamot creaking open from behind him, and that was far more than she could bear. "Thanks," he said, hastily, before the pressure she felt on her hand had disappeared and the warmth that had travelled from his body to hers disappeared entirely and she was stood, back facing the door to the Wizengamot, entirely on her own.

She gnawed the edge of her lip, eyebrows knitting together as she stared down at her shoes. Her mother had taught her two things - how to verbally shred someone, and how to love someone who did not love her in the same way. And he didn't love her in the same way; she knew that with a certainty that was as painful as it was raw. But there was something, she knew - there had to be something. For Draco Malfoy lay with her every night, and whispered his secrets to her, and - and _yes_. He must have loved her. Whereas Pansy's father had wandered every corner of the earth as opposed to laying with his supposed beloved. That, she supposed, was something.

Gathering all the courage she had within her - and it was not a lot, but she scraped every morsel she could together - she turned, and stared at the enormous doors, and hoped, above all else, that he would come back.

**vii.**

**Fifteen Hours and Five Minutes.**

Pansy Parkinson was to be someone entirely different that night. She was not to be hopelessly in love with someone who did not appear to reciprocate the feeling; no, she would immerse herself in glamour, stride into the bar as haughtily and elegantly as you pleased. She would be approached by a strapping young man, a chronic flirt with fantastic skin and bright eyes and the promise of adventure in every action he made. And she - she would appear aloof, unattainable, and yet devastatingly attractive, and the boy would not accept defeat. No, he certainly would not.

Fifteen hours, five minutes. She had time to be who she wanted to be. She had one more night, and one more night she would take advantage of. The shawl had perhaps been a bad idea - sauntering into the pub, she realised that absolutely no-one else was wearing a shawl, particularly not a violet-coloured one. In fact, the girls in the corner seemed to have decided that the less worn the better, and Pansy could hardly stop herself from flicking her eyes up towards the heavens at their brashness, their shrieks of laughter.

It was not that she had never shrieked with laughter like that, it was rather that it was not her doing it.

She strolled towards the bar, very unfortunately not attracting any attention whatsoever from the young men grouped around the table towards the back, although they had a large quantity of drinks in front of them and seemed ripe for entertainment of any kind. Sliding onto one of the stools, she crossed one ankle over the other and tapped her fingernails against the bar in order to get the bar-man's attention. He had an awful hair-cut. She ordered the first thing she saw on the menu in a shrill voice. She didn't know much about alcohol, after all.

She straightened her back, swept her hair off of her face, lowered her lashes seductively. It was time to make a change. She had fifteen hours, five - no, less - minutes. Fifteen hours. Five minutes. Less. The words jumbled inside her brain. They heaped, one on top of the other. They folded themselves over each other. She had no chance of escaping from them.

Her drink was set in front of her, and she traced the glass with one of her talon-like fingernails, nibbling at her bottom lip in earnest. Pubs were not her style. This was a mistake - it was _undoubtedly_ a mistake. She would have to leave. After the drink. Unless a handsome stranger approached her.

Fifteen hours. Five minutes. _Less_.

Unnoticed by her, a chunky sort of fellow slid into the recently-vacated stool beside her, having spotted her from across the bar, noting how poised and elegant her movements were, and yet how plain and foolish her face seemed, in stark contrast. She seemed tense. Rigid. Unsure. Bothered by something. Irritated. As though the weight of the world had rested itself on her shoulders and never removed itself.

Without the slightest clue of what was chasing its way through her brain, cartwheeling and dancing and flitting, the bloke leaned towards her, a slight grin on his face, wondering if she'd appreciate his tattoo.

"Alright, darling?"


End file.
